I started crocheting five months ago because I wanted to do something in life that I didn’t have to take seriously. I mean, at all . By that, I don’t mean that I sought something that wouldn’t involve patience, or time, or dedication. The way I look at it, everything worth doing in life requires those very qualities. Even a backyard sunflower, or succulent, or cactus, requires your attention and regular care. But there it is, you see: the thing about crochet . Even a dehydrated flower is more consequential than poorly executed crochet. You slip, you forget to sun and to water your beloved bromeliads? They die . You slip, you forget your crochet stitch pattern, you run out of yarn in the middle of the night? Nothing happens. Literally nothing . Unless you, like me, are a little bit nuts, and you often think of inanimate things as being alive and verbal, and so you actually imagine your fuming, unfinished sweater, curling its half-done sleeves into fists and mumbling something...